I put new Blossoms in the Glass—And throw the old—away—I push a petal from my GownThat anchored there—I weighThe time-twill be till six o'clockI have so much to do—And yet—Existence—some way back—Stopped—struck—my ticking—through—We cannot put Ourself awayAs a completed ManOr Woman—When the Errand's doneWe came to Flesh—upon—There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought—Of Action—sicker far—To simulate—is stinging work—To cover what we areFrom Science—and from Surgery—Too Telescopic EyesTo beat on us unshaded—For their—sake—not for Ours—'Twould start them—We—could tremble—But since we got a Bomb—And held it in our Bosom—Nay—Hold it—it is calm—Therefore—we do life's labor—Though life's Reward—be done—With scrupulous exactness—To hold our Senses—on—

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Or do you mean like this?

Edgar Guest, "Home"

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind, An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it; Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part With anything they ever used—they've grown into yer heart: The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories o' her that was an' is no more—ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes t' run The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.

5. Who is Edgar Guest?

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The most popular poet in American history. Sold a million copies when a million was a million; wrote a syndicated poem-a-day column; had his own radio show and even, for a while, his own TV show in the early days of that medium. Here's a poem by a poet more or less his contemporary, less popular than Guest was though more read today:

Marianne Moore, "Silence"

My father used to say,"Superior people never make long visits, have to be shown Longfellow's grave or the glass flowers at Harvard. Self-reliant like the cat— that takes its prey to privacy, the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth—they sometimes enjoy solitude, and can be robbed of speech by speech which has delighted them. The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint." Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn."Inns are not residences.

6. How come American poets don't write about politics or current events?

7. But what about living American poets—how come they don't write about politics or current events?

C.K. Williams, "Fear"

1.

At almost the very moment an exterminator's panel truck,the blowup of a cockroach airbrushed on its side,pulls up at a house across from our neighborhood park,a battalion of transient grackles invades the picnic ground,

and the odd thought comes to me how much in their rich sheen,their sheer abundance, their hunger without end, if I let themthey can seem akin to roaches; even their curt, coarse cry:mightn't those subversive voices beneath us sound like that?

Roaches, though … Last year, our apartment house was overrun,insecticides didn't work, there'd be roaches on our toothbrushes ......and combs.The widower downstairs—this is awful—who'd gone through ......deportationand the camps and was close to dying now and would sometimes......faint,

was found one morning lying wedged between his toilet and a wall,naked, barely breathing, the entire surface of his skin alivewith the insolent, impervious brutes, who were no longer dauntedby the light, or us—the Samaritan neighbor had to scrape them off.

2.

Vermin, poison, atrocious death: what different resonance they havein our age of suicide as armament, anthrax, resurrected pox.Every other week brings new warnings, new false alarms;it's hard to know how much to be afraid, or even how.The second world war was barely over, in annihilated citieschildren just my age still foraged for scraps of bread,

and we were being taught that our war would be nuclear,that if we weren't incinerated, the flesh would rot from our bones.By the time Kennedy and Khrushchev faced off over Cuba,rockets primed and aimed, we were sick with it, insane.

And now these bewildering times, when those whose interest isto consternate us hardly bother to conceal their purposes.Yes, we have antagonists, and some of their grievances are just,but is no one blameless, are we all to be combatants, prey?

3.

We have offended very grievously, and been most tyrannous,wrote Coleridge, invasion imminent from radical France;the wretched plead against us … then, Father and God,spare us, he begged, as I suppose one day I will as well.

I still want to believe we'll cure the human heart, heal itof its anxieties, and the mistrust and barbarousness they spawn,but hasn't that metaphorical heart been slashed, dissected,cauterized and slashed again, and has the carnage relented, ever?

Night nearly, the exterminator's gone, the park deserted,the swings and slides my grandsons play on forsaken.In the windows all around, the flicker of the television news:more politics of terror; war, threats of war, war without end.

A half-chorus of grackles still ransacks the trash;in their intricate iridescence they seem eerily otherworldly,negative celestials, risen from some counter-realm to rescue us.But now, scattering towards the deepening shadows, they go, too.

9. Well, I like poetry that is amusing, that maybe makes me chuckle a little. I'd rather read something reassuring and light than something complicated or gloomy. Is that bad? Does that mean I am a jerk?